Killing Caroline: A Sourdough Story

Moving half-way across the country made killing Caroline 1 an easy choice. Most starters have a name, Caroline was the name of mine (Neil Diamond inspired). Is it a lie if it’s not true all the time? Books and blogs say making sourdough starter, the basis of delicious sourdough, is an easy, guaranteed process. It hasn’t been. Creating sourdough starter for me was an arduous process culminating in a vibrant sourdough, increased patience and desperate answered prayer. Starter is the building block; it’s not even the reward! The reward is a rich, tangy bread, the crunch of breaking through the crust to warm richness slathered in butter.

I’ve never gotten the rise out of Caroline that I wanted. She’s never been bubbly and airy enough. And when I made the bread, the dough was never firm enough for the initial scoring—which is both decorative and helps create rise in the oven. Summer began the creation of the new Caroline. Ideally an easy ten day process. Mix flour and water. Wait three days. Add more flour and water. Those are the basics. Like a failed Frankenstein I could not get my Caroline to come to life.

Caroline teased me with her false vigor. I’d coax her with warm tap water, with wheat flour and rye flour, even lying her down on a bed of warmth. She failed to respond. She went flat. She grew mold. She refused to put out. No bubbly proof of yeast. Week after week I waited. Restarted. Perhaps the tap water contained chlorine. I switched to bottled water. I changed the heat source. I changed ratios. For three months Caroline and I danced. She would not double. She wasn’t looking like any of the online pictures. I was near to giving up.

Making bread is an act of faith. Like scattering seed. I prayed for Caroline, that she would be effervescent, growing and doubling. God is, after all, over the rising of the sun and the fruit of the vine. Certainly, He is over the rising of a starter. After three months of perseverance, Caroline #2 blossomed. I can’t specifically tell you why. I suspect the courtship had gone on long enough to convince her I was serious.

Freedom Of Limits

 "Art is limitation; the essence of every picture is the frame. If you draw a giraffe, you must draw him with a long neck. If in your bold creative way you hold yourself free to draw a giraffe with a short neck, you will really find that you are not free to draw a giraffe.” G. K. Chesterton

In part the hope was that the surgery, cutting my back open, would heal the right foot. It had been getting progressively more useless prior to the surgery. There was a slight healing, but a full healing, they said, could take a year…or more. Or never.  For the next day, or year or however long I live God has ordained this limitation of my strength and of my healing. Weak as I was before, there has been some increase of strength. Strong as I could be, it appears a significant weakness will remain in my foot. The human body as designed is bound by weakness. Theologians (h/t David O. Taylor) make the point that Christ Himself came to us in a limited body.

In Atul Gawande’s book; Being Mortal he says that the end is ‘just the accumulated crumbling of one’s body systems.” At one point he asks a well published gerontologist if we have discerned any particular, reproducible pathway to aging. “No,’ he said, ‘We just fall apart.”  

Wrestling with this framework I can see two sides, one depressing and one positive. The downer is that the body will wear out, break down, fall apart. The upside is that In this clay frame, in this finitude there is freedom. A freedom to lean into God, to love one another and to celebrate what we have.

Photo by meriç tuna on Unsplash